


Phoenix

by Luka



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-01-24 10:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21336937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: Some of the Saracens team visit a new coffee shop - but Owen doesn't make a good impression on the cute lad behind the counter ...
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 56
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd be writing a coffee shop AU. But oh, the World Cup angst! So the stories from Japan will have to wait ... And once I saw that George and his brother Joe are about to open a coffee shop, I couldn't resist the temptation. I swear the fic in this corner of fandom writes itself ...!

The kid had to be the slowest barista on the planet. The coffee was levelled off immaculately before it was slotted into the machine. Each cup was filled with boiling water and warmed thoroughly before the coffee went anywhere near it. The milk was added slowly until it reached the top of the cup – and the phoenix design on the top of the drink was an absolute masterpiece. 

Owen tried not to show his impatience. No one else in the queue seemed concerned - it looked like they were all regulars. And the little old ladies who made up most of the early afternoon clientele cooed over the barista, who seemed to know them all by name and enquired after their husbands and dogs and sundry aches and pains. Jamie and Elliot were too busy being coffee snobs to worry about the delay, discussing roasts and countries of origin and Fairtrade accreditation. They were good lads, but they were also pretentious twats at times.

Twenty minutes after joining the not very long queue, Owen had his cappuccino. As he beat a beady-eyed old bloke to one of the sofas at the back of the coffee shop, he resisted the temptation to down it in one. He’d then have to rejoin the queue for a second cup, and he’d be there till Christmas.

Jinx and Elliot seemed much more enamoured of the place than Owen was. The Saracens lads pretty much knew every coffee shop in a 20-mile radius, and this one - Phoenix Coffee - had only been open a few weeks. It seemed to tick all the right-on boxes when it came to the coffee, and Owen had to admit his cappuccino was one of the best he’d tasted. And judging by the enthusiasm with which the little old dears nearby were tucking into the cakes – vegan, gluten-free and locally sourced, apparently – the food was good as well.

“You’ve got an admirer, Faz,” said Jinx, leaning back and waggling his eyebrows.

“What you going on about?”

“Lad behind the counter keeps staring at you.”

“Fuck off,” said Owen without heat. This was a well-honed routine as Jamie and Elliot saw it as their life’s mission to match-make for him. But then they were the only people, apart from his immediate family, who knew he was gay.

“Nice-looking lad. And he makes a cracking cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, whatever …” Owen took out his phone and pointedly started checking his messages. The other two went back to discussing coffee machines.

An hour and a half later, they’d had refills of coffee and eaten complimentary carrot and kale muffins, brought over to them by a guy who looked like he was the owner. Owen glanced up briefly, smiled his thanks, and went back to texting his little brother Gabe, who’d taken part in his first school rugby tournament that day and wanted to share every last detail of his five tries with Owen.

“Shall I take these?”

Owen looked up sharply. It was the barista lad, whose Lancashire accent was as heavy as Owen’s. It sounded like Oldham or somewhere around there. And when Owen looked at him closely, he could see that he was older than he’d first appeared - maybe early to mid-20s. The tired blue eyes and worry lines were the giveaway. His slight build made him seem younger. And he seemed vaguely familiar, although Owen couldn’t place him. He was cute, though, although there was no way Owen was admitting that to Jinx and Elliot.

“You’re some way from home,” said Owen without thinking.

“So are you.” 

Owen grimaced. “Been down here 15 years. I blame me dad …”

“Same here.” But there was no sign of levity in the guy’s voice.

“How long have you been working here?” asked Jamie, who could always be relied on to make polite conversation.

“Me and me brother run it. We opened two weeks ago.” He nodded to the other guy who was now restocking food cabinets in preparation for the late afternoon rush. And Owen could see how similar they were in appearance.

“Nice set-up.”

“Thanks.”

“Get the queue moving quicker and you’ll be sorted,” said Owen.

“If you want fast food, fuck off to McDonalds!” snapped the guy. He picked up the tray and stalked off.

Jinx and Elliot began to applaud in unison.

“Faz diplomatic services. Always open for business,” said Jamie.

“Fuck off,” said Owen, and walked out.

***

They avoided the place for a couple of weeks, despite Jinx and Elliot claiming it served the best coffee in the area. And they only went back, this time with Maro in tow, because the cafe nearby that they’d intended to try appeared to have disappeared overnight and morphed into a charity shop.

It was impossible to go anywhere and be incognito when you had Maro there. The yummy mummies who had now found the coffee shop simpered at him and requested selfies. Their sprogs wanted to clamber onto his lap and tug inquisitively at his dreadlocks. The little old dears patted him on the cheek and said what a lovely lad he was. Maro, being a well brought up boy, smiled obediently and chatted to everyone.

Both the brothers were watching the show from behind the counter. The older one, the more garrulous of the pair, chatted easily to Jamie and Elliot about Saracens’ win at the weekend. Snail boy, who had a face like a smacked arse, concentrated on making the coffees.

Owen, who felt guilty for his comment the previous week, found himself staring at the lad. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was undeniably cute, with his short, neat hair, good cheekbones and steady blue-grey eyes.

“What you staring at?”

“You,” said Owen, who was an absolutely lousy liar.

“Why?”

“Um … You’re cute.” Fuck, what had he just said? 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I suppose you think I’m gonna fall at your feet because you’re the big star. Let me tell you something … I hate rugby players and I wouldn’t piss on any of you if you were on fire!” He slammed the cup down on the counter and disappeared into the back of the shop.

“Another example of the Faz charm offensive!” said Jamie, who’d overheard the lot, much to Owen’s dismay.

"Owen Farrell … The kind of person you take anywhere twice. The second time to say sorry," said Elliot.

“Fuck off,” said Owen, and walked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cold War between Owen and snail boy thaws about half a degree ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still in World Cup final mourning, so here's the second chapter of something a touch lighter ...! And RhysLahey must take the blame for one of the scenes!

Chapter 2

Owen developed an aversion to coffee for the next few weeks. So he was far too busy to go whenever Jamie and Elliot suggested further trips to Phoenix Coffee. At least it meant his golf swing was in the groove. 

He should never have let Jinx give him a lift after training, though. He’d ensconced himself in the back seat and immersed himself in his phone. When the car stopped, Owen glanced up and spotted the familiar Phoenix sign on the coffee shop.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can’t we find somewhere else where we can get served this side of Christmas and where we’re actually made to feel welcome?”

Jamie eyed him beadily. “You upset the natives and deserved all the grief you got.”

“I didn’t!” Owen didn’t want to say that he was suffering coffee withdrawal symptoms, and now understood why going cold turkey was a stupid idea. But he wasn’t sure his nerves could stand the prolonged wait for caffeine.

Of course the queue was out of the sodding door and halfway to Twickenham. Jamie and Elliot were insistent that they stayed, though. Apparently this was the only cafe in the northern hemisphere serving Madagascan raccoon pooh coffee. Or something.

Snail boy was purveying his masterpieces, agonising over every last drop of milk. He was endearingly earnest about it all, his brow furrowed and his serious expression only occasionally lightened by a compliment from one of his burgeoning fan club that now seemed to include students from the uni as well as the massed OAP ranks.

When he reached the front of the queue, Owen arranged his features into a smile, ignoring Jamie who asked in a loud voice if he was OK or whether he had wind.

“I’ll have tea, please,” said Owen, trying not to stare at the cute lad.

Snail boy regarded him unblinkingly. “English breakfast, Yorkshire tea, Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Rooibos, matcha, oolong, sencha, black tea, yellow tea, white tea, gunpowder, green tea, green tea and jasmine, green tea and peppermint, lapsang souchong …”

“Um, just tea …”

“Peppermint, spearmint, ginger and lemon, camomile, vanilla and honey, cranberry and raspberry, peach and mango, apple and mango, apple and cinnamon, goji berry and cranberry …”

“Normal tea!”

“It’s all normal. So which one?”

“I dunno! Just tea that you can put milk in.”

“Might have bloody guessed you’d go for builder’s bum tea …”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No poncey herbal stuff for you, just real man tea …”

They glared at each other and only Jamie stepping in and engaging snail boy in conversation about the origins of the raccoon pooh coffee stopped World War III from breaking out.

Elliot had shown his devastating sidestep to beat a mother and three brats to the comfy sofa at the back of the shop and was sprawled out looking smug and set for the long haul. 

“Faz, you could play nice sometimes. You might not like it here, but Jinx and I do, and we don’t want to be banned, thank you.”

“I wasn’t the one who was rude!”

“You wound the lad up when he was asking you a perfectly straightforward question.”

“Straightforward? That list of teas was the length of the fucking M6!”

“What did you expect? Tesco’s own teabags with milk and two sugars?”

Owen muttered something uncomplimentary beneath his breath and took his phone out. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The raccoon shit coffee seemed to pass muster with Jinx and Elliot, and they both drank two cups before getting immersed in a deep and meaningful discussion about it with the more outgoing brother. Snail boy spent the afternoon crafting his tortured masterpieces and cleaning every inch of the counter at least six times. Owen caught his eye at one point and offered up a tentative smile. It wasn’t returned. Owen couldn’t help thinking that the lad would look adorable if he smiled more.

At about 4.30pm Owen started hinting very loudly that he’d had enough and wanted to go home for his tea. The others sighed and started collecting their belongings. Snail boy appeared with an unexpected burst of speed and very ostentatiously started cleaning the table.

“You’ve missed a bit,” said Owen helpfully.

“Fuck off!” And snail boy snatched up the tray and stormed off.

***

“We’ve had an invite to the official opening of the coffee shop,” said Elliot happily.

“I’m busy that night,” said Owen. He fucking hated doing promo stuff. All he’d get out of this one would be some free coffee and grief from a cute if terminally grumpy barista. Owen wished he knew why he found the lad so intriguing. He still couldn’t work out where he knew him from, though.

“You don’t know when it is yet. And anyway, it’s in the afternoon.”

“Then I’ll be busy cleaning me boots …”

Jinx and Elliot simply sighed in stereo.

***

Owen yanked his baseball cap down over his eyes, snaffled a footstool and pulled it into a corner of the crowded coffeeshop. Half of the town seemed to have turned up, including at least three mayors in full regalia. Jamie and Elliot were circulating happily, having their photos taken with countless starry-eyed sprogs. Owen had to admit that they did make a good double-act who could do all the PR shit effortlessly. For him, it was only slightly more preferable than a trip to the dentist.

“I’m surprised to see you here …”

Snail boy stood over him, a cup of coffee in his hand which he thrust at Owen.

“Um, thanks … I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

A rare smile flashed across the lad’s serious face. “Same here. Me brother’s great at it.”

“Same with Jamie and Elliot. They can talk to anyone.”

There was a silence, then Owen said awkwardly: “I’m sorry if I’ve been snotty with you.”

“It’s OK. I think I’ve been snotty enough back!”

They shared a brief smile. The moment was interrupted, though, by Jamie’s arm appearing through the crush and yanking Owen to his feet.

“Stop being a miserable shit and come and have your photo taken. It won’t kill you!”

Owen and snail boy exchanged another smile before Owen found himself being bundled into a photo line-up, orchestrated by a photographer from the local rag who looked like he should be playing in the front row for Georgia.

“Oi, you with the chain! Move in a bit!”

There was a brief crush as the mayors, automatically preening for the camera, obeyed with alacrity, elbowing each other out of the way in an attempt to be the centre of the photo.

“And you, the big lad with the baseball cap! Shift forward, can’t you?”

Owen opened his mouth to argue, looked at the photographer and decided to play nice. Jamie beamed benevolently at him, and the three Saracens lads put their arms around each other and presented their best PR faces to the camera.

***

By 6pm the freeloaders and mayors (mainly one and the same) had disappeared, and only the three rugby players and a couple of students hoovering up the remaining muffins remained. The older brother, who’d played the MC role perfectly, handed them all another cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa beside them.

“Thanks for coming, we really appreciate it,” he said.

“Not a problem. There was a good turn-out,” said Jamie.

“With a bit of luck we’ll get some good publicity out of it all …”

Owen, who’d drunk so much coffee that he felt like he should be swinging from the trendy metal rafters, nodded politely. To his surprise, snail boy came over to join them, and sat down on the footstool next to him. 

“OK?” said Owen, trying a smile. 

The lad nodded.

“Will you go to the cinema with me?” said Owen, all in a rush.

“Why?”

“To see a film,” said Owen, confused.

“Is that all?”

Realisation dawned. “Not just that … I want to get to know you better.”

“Why?”

“Because I fancy you,” said Owen, knowing that he’d gone scarlet.

A shadow seemed to pass across the lad’s face. “Thank you for asking me, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“We live in different worlds. You’d be bored of me within a week.”

“Please.”

The naked plea surprised them both.

“You don’t even know my name.”

Owen stuck out his hand. “Hello, I’m Owen. Pleased to meet you. And please will you come on a date with me? I know we’ve got off on the wrong foot, but I really mean it.”

The handshake in return was firm. “OK. My name’s George. When and where? I can finish here at 6pm.”

“Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up outside at 6.”

“OK.”

“Brilliant! See you then.” And Owen grabbed his jacket, waved vaguely to Jamie and Elliot and legged it before the lad could change his mind.

***

When Owen pulled up outside the shop at 6pm on the dot, George was already there. He’d changed out of his Phoenix sweatshirt into jeans and a hoody. He clambered into the car and managed a smile, but sat in the passenger seat biting his nails that already looked painfully raw. Owen kept telling himself he’d kicked vital goals in tense internationals but he’d never before felt this nervous.

The film was some superhero thing although Owen couldn’t have recounted the plot later even if his life had depended on it. He was too aware of the neat figure next to him, seemingly engrossed in the action. Once or twice Owen moved his leg so that their knees touched, and was encouraged when George didn’t pull away.

As the credits rolled they both stood up and smiled tentatively at each other.

“Fancy a pizza?” said Owen, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck.

“Surely that’s not part of your diet?”

“I’ll run it off tomorrow,” said Owen airily. “Shall we try that new place across the road?”

George seemed about to decline, but then nodded. “OK. Thanks. But only if I pay my share.”

The lad had handed him a £10 note when they’d queued up to buy tickets and had insisted that Owen took it. “OK.”

It was a new Italian place, run by a family who seemed only able to communicate in ear-bleeding shouts. But the food was good, and no one seemed about to barge over and interrupt the meal to demand a selfie with Owen.

Conversation wasn’t what you’d call fluent, but they chatted about the film and then went on to talking about childhood comics. And somewhere in Owen’s memory, something stirred.

“I keep thinking I know you from somewhere … Hang on – it was school, wasn’t it?”

George paled and dropped his knife, which bounced onto the floor. An alert waitress salvaged it. He managed a half-smile for her.

“I’m surprised you remember … It was a long time ago. A lifetime. And yeah, I was the disappearing snowflake.”

His voice cracked and he got up and almost ran from the restaurant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen starts to pick up some hints about George's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next bit of the World Cup fic is plodding along. In the meantime, let's stay in an alternative universe ...

The text message arrived before Owen had got home. 

_I’m sorry. Don’t waste your time with me._

_Nothing to be sorry for. And I want to see you again. But I promise I won’t hassle you._

_Thank you._

And Owen suspected that was the best he could hope for. 

As usual, the house was cold and unwelcoming - he always forgot to set the central heating clock and the lighting timers. He should ask young Ralph - the lad was doing physics at uni, so he must know about those things … Owen went around flipping the lights on and cranking the heating up. It didn’t help much.

Owen sat on the sofa with a mug of tea and started scrolling through the sports channels. But not even rugby league could hold his attention. Instead, he stared around him and realised how lonely he was. The house was nice enough, but he’d only bought it because his parents moving to Ireland had forced his hand – he’d been happy and comfortable living at home with his mam and dad and little brother. It’d been the first – and only – house he’d looked at. It was just down the road from where his parents had lived, and it was convenient for both training and the Allianz. He had very few visitors, apart from the lads occasionally coming round to watch DVDs and play games. At least he didn’t have to spend too much time at home – being on the road constantly had its advantages.

He suddenly wondered what it would be like to have George living there with him. Before George had fled, the lad had loosened up considerably and they’d been chatting and laughing. Owen was intrigued and more than a little bemused by the strong attraction he felt to the enigmatic lad. He’d always secretly dreamed of having someone to share his life with, but had never admitted that to anyone, not even his parents. He let everyone assume he was wedded to rugby. Well, he was, of course, but … And Owen would be the first to admit that he could be hard going at times.

Owen still couldn’t place the lad, though. So it had been school, but that didn’t help much. Owen had probably been in his too cool to care, tragic haircut phase, and been too busy griping about having to move south. So he did what he always did when he needed info - phoned his mam. She had a better informer network than the Russians and never forgot a face.

“Mam, do you remember a lad when I was at school called George Ford?”

“Yes. They lived round the corner from us for about a year before they moved away. He had two brothers. Lovely lads.”

“Can you remember why they moved?”

“I think it was their dad’s job. But I heard that George had been very ill, so that might have had something to do with it.”

“Do you know what was wrong with him?”

“No, apart from the fact he missed a lot of school. Why are you asking?”

“He and his older brother have just opened a coffee shop down here.”

“That sounds nice.”

There was a brief silence and Owen couldn’t think what else to say. So he added quickly: “How did Gabe get on the other day on his school trip?”

“Oh, he loved it. And he’s been picked for the school team. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Go on, then,” said Owen, stretching out on the sofa and getting comfortable. There were no such things as brief conversations with his little brother.

***

Tuesday afternoon, and the Saracens trio had commandeered the big sofa at the back of the coffee shop. This meant, though, that they had no escape when Malcolm the pug and his doting owner took up residence at the next table.

“That dog farts more than you do, Jinx,” said Owen. He said it at half-volume, which meant only two-thirds of the coffee shop heard. 

Jamie rolled his eyes and mouthed “ha ha!”

Elliot, ever the diplomat, managed to engage Malcolm’s owner Dotty in conversation about how handsome the lugubrious hound was, which stopped her giving Owen a very sizeable piece of her mind.

Dotty was just one of the coffee shop regulars who looked like they’d marched in from a soap opera. Tristram, the coffee shop philosopher in residence (self-appointed), was pontificating to a table of bemused Americans. He’d tried it once with the rugby lads, wittering about some blokes called Kant and Plato. He hadn’t appreciated Owen’s observation that he should fuck off and stop being a right kant … Over by the door, the blonde PR students from the uni, who all looked the same and who all seemed to have boyfriends called Teddy, were talking excitedly about champagne receptions and how they were going skiing in the south of France come January.

George was behind the counter and had given Owen a half-smile when their eyes had met. Owen settled down with the new issue of Rugby World. His teammates would piss themselves laughing at the thought of Owen displaying patience. But he’d meant what he’d said to George - he wasn’t going to hassle him. He’d wait as long as he had to.

***

“What you doing?” George set a fresh cup of coffee down beside Owen.

“Writing an essay.” 

“Why?” George’s brow furrowed.

“Deadline on Friday …” And considering it was now Thursday afternoon, it was situation critical.

“Are you doing a degree, then?”

“Yeah, part-time. I’ve been doing it for bloody ages. Just got this module and then the dissertation to do.”

“What you studying?”

“Business and leadership.”

George nodded, and moved the footstool minutely so that it was immaculately lined up with the one next to it.

“My mam remembers you …” said Owen without thinking.

George’s voice was quiet. “She was always lovely to me, and I really appreciated that. Please will you tell her how much it meant to me?”

“Of course. She’s in Ireland now.”

“I know. I saw about your dad’s new job …”

There was a brief silence, and George stared at Owen’s laptop screen. “Your spelling’s awful,” he said, scrolling through the essay. “You do know there’s a spellcheck you can use? And that sentence doesn’t make sense.”

Twenty minutes later, George pronounced himself satisfied with the essay, having reined in some of Owen’s more eccentric spelling and grammar.

“Thanks,” said Owen, hitting ‘save’ with alacrity. 

“No problem.”

“What did you study?”

George’s face clouded over. “I started a degree, but dropped out.”

And it was clear he wanted to shut down the subject, starting to move away. 

“Will you go for a walk with me on Sunday? And we could have lunch as well,” said Owen, straight off the top of his head, desperate to keep George there for a bit longer.

“Um, I dunno … Depends if Joe can find cover for me …”

“Of course I can,” said Joe, materialising as if from nowhere. “What day?”

“Sunday,” said Owen.

“Not a problem. Fizz wants some more shifts.”

Fizz was the Goth kid who helped out evenings and weekends. Owen wasn’t sure if they were male or female. And they talked even less than George did. But they made good coffee …

“Great. I’ll pick you up here at 11,” said Owen. “I’d better go. I’m on coaching duty tonight.”

George nodded and managed a ghost of a smile.

***

Owen got out of the car and stretched. He glanced over to where several dozen kids were running riot at a training session with a red-faced burly bloke trying to corral them into some sort of order. 

Next to him Wiggy grinned widely. “Best of luck to him with herding cats. Or should that be brats? Thank god we’ve got the big ‘uns tonight.”

Owen nodded. It was his, Wiggy and Jackson’s turn on the coaching run this week, out with a club in one of the London north west leagues. He never minded taking his turn on this – any excuse to play and talk about rugby was fine by him. 

“Hey lads, thanks for coming …”

Owen did a double take at both the strong Lancashire accent and the familiar figure - it was George’s brother.

The guy stuck his hand out. “I’m Joe Ford. We’ve met in the coffee shop, but it’s nice to see you wearing your official hat.”

“Hi, I’m Owen. Nice to see you. Is George here?”

A shadow seemed to pass over Joe’s face and he shook his head. “Come and meet the lads.”

It was a good training session. Owen let Wiggy take control, and he and a couple of the lads concentrated on place-kicking. One of them, a monosyllabic London kid, seemed a really good prospect. Owen resolved to get the Saracens coaches to take a look at him.

The clubhouse, which looked like a converted cricket pavilion, was full to bursting afterwards. Owen wouldn’t have minded going straight home, but he knew Jackson and Wiggy liked a pint after training sessions and the chance to natter to people.

Owen sat down at a table in the corner and pulled out his phone, scrolling quickly through his messages. He looked up as Joe set a pint down in front of him and pulled up a chair.

“Thanks for coming. The lads really appreciated it. It’ll give them a good push for promotion.”

“Where are you in the league?”

“Fourth with two games in hand on the team above us.”

“Good. A few of the lads look very useful, particularly that red-haired kid.”

“Yeah, London Irish are sniffing around after him …”

There was silence and they both sipped their drinks. Then Joe seemed to come to a decision. He said quietly: “You’ve made a huge impression on George.”

“I want to get to know him better,” said Owen, knowing he’d gone pink.

“Good. Look, I don’t want to break any confidences and he’ll tell you whatever he wants you to know when he’s ready. But he’s had a tough time … He only let me back into his life a year ago.”

“Shit. Where was he?”

“I don’t know. He still won’t talk about it, and I get the feeling it was bad. He started a degree, but dropped out halfway through. I used to text him at least once a week, and counted it as a success if he replied once a month. He won’t talk to our parents as he thinks he’s let them down. They miss him so much and ask about him all the time. But he won’t change his mind.”

“My mam remembers him and your family from when we were at school. She thought he’d been very ill …”

“He was,” said Joe shortly.

“How did you persuade him …?” Owen waved his hands around vaguely.

“I got redundancy from an IT job, so I poured it into the shop and took out a loan on top. I asked George if he wanted to help me run it, expecting him to say no. It’s been good for him and we seem to be doing OK …”

“Where’s he living?”

“In my spare room. It took me months to persuade him to move in. He’d been in this awful bedsit in north London …”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Joe fixed his gaze on Owen, his eyes almost as intense as his brother’s. “Look, I don’t want to come across as some Victorian father. But I have to know … Are you serious about him?”

“Deadly serious,” said Owen. And he was relieved when Joe nodded, obviously believing him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen and George spend more time together - but there are painful memories being uncovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still wallowing in the AU world. Please read the end notes for trigger warnings before you read the chapter ...

It was bloody brass monkeys when they pulled into the almost empty car park next to the nature reserve. As they got out of the car, Owen could see George shivering in jeans and a hoody. He was about to ask why he hadn’t put a warm coat on, but something stopped him. It then struck him that George’s clothes were all spotlessly clean but clearly old – the hoody had fraying cuffs and his jeans were faded and thin and worn out down the seams.

Owen opened the boot of his car and pulled out two fleeces - he had a stock in there, mostly supplied by sponsors. These two were both from LandRover. He put one on and handed the other to George. For a moment he thought the lad was going to refuse it and give it back, but George pulled it on.

“Thanks,” he said briefly, pushing the cuffs up slightly. The extra-large fleece swamped him.

Owen nodded and zipped his up. 

It was a gorgeous day - very cold but with a bright winter sun. They started walking around the lake. It was one of Owen’s favourite walks. He knew sod-all about birds – he couldn’t tell a sparrow from a budgie – but it was a peaceful spot. And even mid morning on a Sunday, it was quiet, with a few hardy couples out and a handful of runners pounding out their training routes. 

They did a circuit of the lake and then sat down on a bench. Owen slid his arm around George’s waist and was glad when he didn’t pull away. 

“OK?”

“Yeah. It’s nice here …”

“It’s one of my favourite walks.”

They lapsed back into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Owen noticed George surreptitiously pulling the cuffs on the fleece back down over his hands, and realised the lad had no gloves. Without saying anything he took hold of George’s left hand and tucked it into his own pocket, their fingers entwined. George looked surprised but snuggled slightly closer to Owen. 

Owen kissed the top of his head. George looked up at him, his blue eyes wide with surprise. Then there was a heart-stopping smile that totally transformed his serious face.

“What are folk gonna think if they see you kissing a bloke in public?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” said Owen, kissing him again.

“What happens if you end up all over the media?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” repeated Owen, kiss and all.

“Are you out to anyone?”

“My family, Jamie and Elliot. What about you?”

“Only Joe. But then I haven’t got anyone else to tell …” He said this matter-of-factly.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” But George sounded wary.

“What about your parents?”

“It’s better that I don’t see them,” said George, shutting down the conversation.

There was another silence, then Owen said: “You ready for your dinner?”

George hesitated, then nodded. “That sounds good.”

The pub - one of those cheesy-looking half-timbered places that in reality served the best food in the area – was busy, but Owen had booked a table in advance. It was in an alcove near the open fire.

“We’re going halves again,” said George, scanning the menu.

“I invited you, so it’s my treat.”

“Just because you earn loads doesn’t mean I have to sponge off you. I’m not a charity case!”

“I know you’re not. You can pay next time.”

George looked uneasy, but eventually nodded and said: “OK, thank you. I will.”

Owen had a sneaking suspicion that the lad would choose the cheapest items on the menu, so he said: “I could eat a scabby cat. I want the tomato soup and then the roast dinner. The stuffed mushrooms here are great. If you fancy steak, the chips and onion rings are amazing.”

George hesitated, clearly checking the prices, then said: “The soup and the roast sound great. Look, are you sure …?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “And I’ll warn you now that apple crumble with custard is my weekly treat, so I’m leaving space for that … What do you want to drink? A pint? Wine?”

“Sparkling water’s fine for me, thanks.”

“Are you teetotal?”

“Alcohol fucks with my medication,” said George shortly.

Owen opened his mouth to ask what he was on, but quickly closed it again. The lad would tell him if he wanted him to know.

“About last time … I’m sorry for running out on you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now and I’m glad.”

George managed a smile, seemingly relieved that Owen hadn’t pushed him for an explanation.

Their starters arrived at that point and Owen was pleased to see George devouring his. The lad needed more weight on his skinny bones.

As they waited for their main courses, George said: “What d’you reckon to the Great Britain shambles? They should probably knock it on the head …”

“What Great Britain shambles?” Owen was confused.

“Rugby league. You know, the game with 13 blokes. Your dad was a bit useful at it!” This was said with a smile.

“You like rugby league?”

“I love it!”

And then they were off. Owen was over the moon to find someone who was as besotted with the sport as he was - all the Saracens lads seemed to think it was some weird foreign ritual. Shame George supported St Helens and not Wigan, though … And before they knew it, it was nearly 5pm, and the staff were eying the table for the evening rush. 

“I really enjoyed that. Thanks,” said George, as Owen stopped the car outside Joe’s house.

“So did I. Let’s do it again soon.”

“I’d like that. And I’ll pay for lunch next time.”

Owen, hoping he wasn’t pushing things too fast, leaned over and kissed George on the lips. The lad regarded him for a moment or two out of unblinking blue eyes, then returned the kiss. Owen watched as he got out of the car and walked down the path to the red front door, pausing for a moment to turn and raise his hand in a brief farewell before disappearing into the house.

***

It was firework night and it sounded like a bloody war zone outside. The coffee shop stayed open till 10pm every night and Owen had taken to going in there for the last couple of hours either to do some uni work or to watch games on his iPad with headphones on. Then he’d walk George home as if they were a couple of teenagers, parting at the front door with a quick, chaste kiss.

A group of uni students, the founder members of George’s fan club, used the coffee shop as somewhere warm to work and where no one gave them grief for making a medium latte last three hours. Owen surprised himself by agreeing to do an interview with one of the journalism students for her coursework. 

“You’ve got a fan for life there,” said George, handing Owen a refill of coffee as a reward.

“Thanks. Nice kid. She wants to be a sports reporter …”

There was a humongous bang overhead from the sodding fireworks. Then they both jumped a mile as one of the students cried out. Her friend was huddled on the floor in the corner, clearly having a panic attack.

George sat down beside her. He didn’t touch her, but talked quietly, encouraging her to synch her breaths with his. And eventually she managed a smile for him, her breathing still shallow but almost back to normal. 

One of her friends threw her arms around him and hugged him. “Thank you so much, George! We’d forgotten how much Sophie hates fireworks.”

“Are you gonna be OK?”

Sophie nodded. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“You look like you’ve dealt with those before,” said Owen, as George sat back down beside him.

“Nasty little fuckers, panic attacks,” said George enigmatically. “Right, I’d better help Fizz clear up.”

***

Sod’s bloody Law kicked in and just when Owen wanted to spend as much time with George as the lad would allow, the European Cup came around and Saracens headed off to France for ten days - they were staying over, given there were matches on a Saturday and then a week on the Sunday. They holed up in Montpellier, which gave an ecstatic Jamie and Elliot the run of coffee shops and the chance to practise their French with excruciating accents.

Owen texted George regularly. He had one response a day to start with, then it gradually built up over the ten days to an almost conversation, complete with coffee shop gossip.

_That bloody dog’s here and farting again. Smells like something’s died in its stomach!_

_Sounds like a rugby changing room! Elliot says to tell Joe that they’ve found gourmet Mexican coffee extracted from the sweat glands of wombats!_

_:D :D :D I think he’ll need to tell him himself!_

_You saying I’ve got it wrong? :D_

_:D :D :D Btw, your tame student journo was in tonight. She said to tell you that she got 75% for her interview with you. She’s given me a copy of the piece for you._

_Cool! How’s Joe?_

_Fine. His lads are up to second in the league now._

_Nice one!_

_And he says to tell you that Max, that fly-half you spotted, is training with Saracens next week._

_Brilliant! He looks a cracking prospect._

_Shit, better go. Some bloke’s told Tristram to stick his philosophy bollocks where the sun don’t shine._

_That’ll be Oldham! x_

_Ha bloody ha! x_

***

Saracens came home with wins under their belts against both Montpellier and Toulouse. And then it was back to the Premiership for a couple of weeks. They had away trips to Exeter and to Bristol, so Owen didn’t see much of George beyond a very damp canal-side walk in pouring rain one Sunday, followed by lunch at the pub. George insisted on paying.

And it was in an Exeter hotel in the early hours of the morning, to the accompaniment of Wiggy snoring like an electric saw, that Owen had a sudden image of a tiny kid jinking through defences and kicking like a metronome. When he woke at 7am, that was all he could remember, though, and he had no idea whether or not it had been a dream.

***

He should have kept his mouth closed. It was just before 10pm and he and George were the only ones in the coffee shop. Just as George locked the front door, the power went out. So they sat on the sofa and talked by the light of the torch on Owen’s phone.

“I had this weird dream … Except, I dunno whether it was a dream or a memory. It was you, beating all these defenders and then kicking everything … You did play rugby, George, didn’t you?”

“Oh yeah. I was supposed to be god’s gift to rugby. I was playing two years above my age, and there were a load of clubs competing for me to sign. And then it all fell apart. All I’m fit for is making coffee. And I can’t even do that quickly.”

“You must hate rugby …”

George turned blazing eyes on him. “No! I love it so fucking much and you’ve no idea how much it hurts not playing it. But I have to stay away for my sanity.”

“Couldn’t you play for one of the junior sides around? You know, no pressure.”

“And settle for second-best? I couldn’t bear that.”

“So it’s OK to throw your life away and work in a coffee shop?” As soon as he’d said it, Owen could have bitten his tongue off. 

“Yeah, I’m not good enough for you, am I? Why are you bothering with me? I’m nothing, a nobody. Is it a joke? Do you laugh about me with all your rugby mates? Or is it pity? Do you want to see what a fuck-up I really am?”

Suddenly the lights came back on. Angrily George pushed his sleeves up. A patchwork of thin scars criss-crossed his arms – some faded and white, others clearly much more recent. Owen realised he’d only ever seen him wearing long-sleeved tops. And now he knew why.

“Yeah, every time I make a mistake I cut myself. I make a lot of mistakes.”

Owen, one of the most unsentimental men on the planet, thought his heart was going to break. He took hold of George’s hands and gently kissed the scars.

“Please let me look after you, Georgie.”

“I don’t need anyone to look after me.”

“I know you don’t. But it’s OK to let someone love you.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would love me.”

“I love you. And I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

“I can’t … I don’t know … Please go, Owen. I can’t deal with all of this.”

“OK. But remember. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mental health issues and self-harm.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen and George's relationship progresses apace, and Owen finally starts to fill in the gaps in the lad's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still in AU land. There's probably one more festive chapter to go after this one. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with the story. Please check the endnotes for possible trigger warnings.

Owen messaged George every day – once in the morning when he got up, and then last thing when he was in bed. The messages weren’t heavy or anything, just casual chat and gossip. The late-night one always signed off the same – ‘I’ll wait as long as you need me to.’ There was no response for about ten days, apart from a single love heart sent at 3am on a Sunday morning.

And Owen made sure he continued his coffee shop routine, even though only Joe and Fizz were behind the counter. It was doing wonders for his uni coursework - his tutors must be wondering what had come over him. An essay was in two weeks before the deadline, and he was up to date on all his reading.

“Arsehole!”

“Bellend!”

“Cockwombling shitgibbon!”

“Dickhead!”

Owen looked up to see the student regulars grouped around a laptop. From what he could gather from the language that would have made the Sarries dressing room look like rank amateurs, someone had left an uncomplimentary review about the coffee shop on TripAdvisor, complaining about the monosyllabic staff and the slowness of the service. One of the identikit blonde PR students was waving her arms and insisting that everyone each write a glowing review.

Nettie, the journalism student, came over and said diffidently: “Owen, will you and Jamie and Elliot leave a positive review, please? The one up there is really unfair. We think it was Tristram.”

Owen nodded. Tristram, the self-proclaimed philosopher, had flounced out after one of the engineering students had apparently suggested some physically impossible feats in an attempt to shut the pretentious wanker up.

The PR student, who had a voice nearly as loud as Owen’s and was even posher than Elliot, came across and stood over the rugby lads until they posted five-star reviews of the coffee shop. She nodded approvingly and then went to corral a group of yummy mummies.

“Blimey, if she ran Southern Rail, all the trains would run on time,” said Jamie.

“Never mind that, she should be running the country!” said Elliot.

Joe came over, looking rather embarrassed. “Lads, I’m sorry, I’ve only just realised what’s going on … You didn’t have to leave reviews, honest. I don’t want Lucinda to railroad people …”

They all looked over to where the yummy mummies were obediently tapping reviews out on their phones and tablets. Lucinda was smiling encouragingly at them. It reminded Owen of a basking shark.

“We didn’t mind,” said Elliot. “The one up there was a pack of lies.”

“Thanks. We really do appreciate it.” Joe glanced at Owen and seemed about to add something.

Owen took advantage of Jamie and Elliot being momentarily distracted and said quietly: “Tell George I miss him.”

Joe nodded. “I will.”

***

Owen sat on the wall in the back garden, fleece zipped up and his fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. It was gone 9pm and already below freezing. A luminous full moon dominated the sky.

He set the tea down and pulled out his phone. He really did miss George. It was like he’d finally found his soulmate. After the inauspicious start they were now so comfortable in each other’s company.

_Hey, how u doing? Just thinking about you_

He waited a few minutes, but there was no response. So he gave it one more try.

_Not gonna hassle u or anything. Just hope 1 day we can be together. <3_

The reply, to his surprise, was almost instantaneous.

_Me too. <3_

Owen stared at the phone for a moment or so, making sure that he wasn’t imagining things. He wondered what it would be like to have someone as a permanent part of his life. Sometimes it felt like he was rattling around in a comfortable but anodyne house that was too big for him. There’d be somewhere there to talk to and laugh with. They’d be able to watch sport and go for walks and meals out. And Owen had always wanted a dog as well. Ever since moving in, he’d been involved in a war of attrition with next door’s ginger moggy Dexter. A dog would see the evil-tempered little fucker off …

Impulsively he grabbed his phone again and messaged George.

_Do you like dogs?_

_????!!!! I love them!_

_Good! I knew we were perfectly suited!_

_:D <3_

***

It took Owen a moment or two to place the red-haired lad - and then he remembered. He was the useful-looking 10 he’d worked with during the training session with Joe’s team.

“How you doing?”

“Good, thanks. And thanks for putting my name forward to Saracens …” He had a strong London accent.

“No problem.”

The lad was summoned over to join the youth squad, and Owen perched on a wall to watch. He was so engrossed in it that it took him a moment or two to realise that someone had joined him. It was Joe.

“Hey, you OK?”

Joe nodded. “I’m fine. I brought Max over. His parents are working nights and he can’t drive.”

“He looks bloody useful.”

“He is. He’s top points scorer in our league by a mile.”

They watched in silence for a while, and then Joe said quietly: “Please don’t give up on George. He’s hurting a lot and needs space, but I can see he misses you like hell. He said he told you about the self-harming …”

Owen nodded. “I won’t give up on him. I keep telling him that I’ll wait as long as he needs me to.”

“It’s a lot for him to deal with. As far as I know he’s never been in love before.”

“Neither have I,” muttered Owen without thinking, then realised he’d gone pink.

Joe’s smile was encouraging. “You can both do it. I know you can. And George has started replying to messages from our little brother Jacob. He doesn’t want to see him at the moment, but the fact they’re back in touch is really positive.”

“That’s great. How long since they …?”

“Ten years. Jacob’s at uni now.”

“Any chance of him getting back in contact with your parents?”

Joe shook his head. “He won’t even discuss it. I don’t mention it any more. He has to make the decision when he’s ready.”

***

“Hey.”

Owen looked up from his laptop to see George regarding him cautiously. “Hey. You OK?”

George nodded. It was the first time Owen had seen him in the coffee shop for nearly three weeks. He looked slightly pale, but otherwise the same as normal. “I’m fine, thanks. And thanks for all the messages. Sorry about the drama queening. I … I dunno …”

“It wasn’t drama queening,” said Owen firmly. “And I meant what I said.”

“That you love me?”

“Yep. And that I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

“Thank you. That means everything to me …”

They smiled at each other and George touched Owen briefly on the arm. He then picked up a tray from an adjoining table and went back to help Fizz behind the counter. Owen settled back on the sofa. It was an hour till closing. With a bit of luck he could walk George home.

***

“Have you got something to tell us?” asked Jamie, settling himself down in an aisle seat on the coach. 

“Um, no, I don’t think so,” said Owen, stretching out across two seats opposite and pointedly taking a rugby league magazine out of his backpack.

They’d beaten Wasps by a mile at the Ricoh, and Owen was intending to snooze on the way back home.

“You seem to be spending a lot of time in the coffee shop.”

“Good place to do my uni work.”

“Yeah?” Jamie quirked a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yeah,” said Owen, opening the magazine and settling down to read.

“I hope it works out. He’s a nice lad.”

Owen looked up, wondering how much Jamie was fishing for information. Instead, he was treated to a genuine smile.

Owen returned the smile. “Thanks, mate.”

***

It was just gone 9pm when Owen turned up at the coffee shop after running a training session with the women’s side. He was back into the routine of walking George home and really looked forward to it, as it gave them the chance to chat – nothing deep, but talking about rugby league or soccer, or just things that had amused them during the day.

The place was quiet, with just a couple of engineering students hunched over their laptops. Joe and George were sitting at the back of the shop talking intently. Joe was the more animated of the two, clearing imploring George. Owen spotted immediately that George was in his closed-down mode where he refused to discuss anything.

Fizz was behind the counter. “All right?”

Owen nodded. “You?”

Fizz nodded. “Usual?”

Owen nodded. “Thanks.”

He sat down in a corner and pulled out his phone, skimming through the Saracens WhatsApp group, which was the usual mix of scurrilous gossip and appalling jokes.

“Hey.” George leaned against a chair. He seemed on edge.

“Hey. Everything OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever it is, tell me,” said Owen.

George hesitated, then said: “I’m gonna look for somewhere else to live.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Joe’s girlfriend is moving in. He says it makes no difference and I should stay, but I dunno, they don’t need me there.”

“Move into mine,” said Owen without hesitation.

“Thanks, but I couldn’t …”

“Why not?”

“Well, I dunno …”

“It’s just me rattling around in the place. There’s plenty of room for you. And I’d like you there.”

George regarded him thoughtfully. “Thank you. I’d like that. But if I do, I pay you a fair rent.” 

“You don’t need to …”

“I need to pay my way,” said George firmly. “And we give it a set time and if it doesn’t work, I’ll move out. I want this relationship to work and we can’t risk wrecking it early on by going too fast …”

“OK, we can sort it all out,” said Owen recklessly, over the moon that George had acquiesced so easily. “Do you want to move this weekend? I’m not playing against Worcester.”

“Is that OK?”

“You bet!”

***

The doorbell gave Owen the shock of his life. He was busy loading the dishwasher and tidying the kitchen, which looked like it had hosted a meal for half the British army, all wearing muddy boots and full packs. 

George was on the doorstep with a large rucksack on his back.

“Hey! I could have picked you up. I thought Joe was bringing you over.”

“He was, but he had to go and sort out a problem at the shop. So I came over on the bus.”

Owen was about to comment that the nearest bus stop was a brisk 20 minutes walk away, but instead said: “Do we need to go and pick your other stuff up?”

“No. This is the lot.” George indicated the rucksack.

“Look, I wasn’t sure … So I’ve cleared one of the bedrooms for you. But if you want to, you know … I’d really like that …” Owen knew he’d gone pink.

“Thank you. And I’d like that too,” said George.

And then they were hugging each other tight. “We can do this,” whispered Owen.

“I want it to work so much … But I’m scared, you know, that it’s all happening too fast …”

“Don’t be. We’re together and that’s what matters. We take it steady and we’ll be fine …”

Owen sat on the bed as George unpacked his belongings. There was a pair of trainers, two pairs of jeans, a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a second hoodie, three sweatshirts and half a dozen teeshirts. An ancient teeshirt and pair of shorts were folded neatly and placed on the pillow on the bed. A handful of underpants and socks went into the chest of drawers. A spongebag was next, followed by a bulky paper bag.

“My medication,” said George, seeing Owen looking at it.

“Do you want to keep it in the bathroom or the kitchen?”

“The kitchen, if that’s OK.”

“Of course.”

“I threw away all my blades. I can’t promise you that I won’t cut myself in your house, but I’ll do my best not to.”

Owen nodded, a lump in his throat the size of a golfball. Briefly he traced his fingers over the back of George’s hand, which earned him a small smile.

George pulled out a notebook and pen, followed by an iPad, which he placed reverentially on the bedside table.

“Shall we get your iPad on the wifi?"

“Yes please. Joe bought it for me for my birthday. It’s the most expensive present I’ve ever had …”

“When is your birthday?”

“March. When’s yours?”

“September.”

The rucksack was now empty and George stowed it in the back of a cupboard. Owen felt a pang of pain at someone’s whole life being contained in just one bag.

“I thought we could go to the Italian tonight. You know, to celebrate you moving in.”

“That sounds great. Thanks.”

***

They were back at the house by 10pm. That first night they lay in each other’s arms, talking quietly until the early hours. And when Owen woke at 7am, it felt totally natural to see George fast asleep, his head resting on Owen’s chest and his arms locked tight around his waist.

Owen crept downstairs and made breakfast. They ate it sitting cross-legged on the bed, making plans for a Sunday morning walk and lunch out, and then watching rugby league later. Owen thought he could quickly get used to having someone he loved there all the time.

He said hesitantly: “Um, I brought your medication upstairs. I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you had to take it with food …”

There was a short silence, and then George said: “Thanks. Yeah, I need to take it now.”

Owen handed him a glass of water and George tipped three tablets into his hand and then swallowed them.

There was another silence. George set the glass down and said: “You didn’t ask me what the medication is for.”

“Not my business,” said Owen.

“It’s only fair that you know, given I’m now living in your house.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to tell me …”

“Owen, you have to know what you’re taking on. I have severe OCD and anxiety. And I’ve been treated for depression in the past. I’ll almost certainly be on medication for the rest of my life. It’s why I …” George’s voice caught and he looked away.

Owen reached out and took hold of George’s left hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “You don’t have to talk about if if it’s too painful …”

“I have to tell you …”

“You only tell me what you want to tell me … And do it in your own time. Nothing you tell me will make the slightest difference to my feelings for you.”

George looked out of the window for some minutes, and then said: “OCD and anxiety has pretty much fucked up my life. Sometimes it’s been so bad that I couldn’t leave the house. It’s why I dropped out of uni and gave up on rugby, although a broken shoulder didn’t help. And it was the main problem at school, as I thought I was useless if I didn’t get As all the time, or play out of my skin at rugby … I’ve ended up as the family failure, despite everyone saying I was the one with the talent.”

“I’m sure they don’t think that …”

George shrugged. “My parents did their best but they didn’t really understand. Joe’s been amazing. He’s been really patient and made sure I didn’t sink when I had all these dead-end jobs in London bars and coffee shops.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best. So now you know. You really want to spend your life with a fuck-up like me?”

“Yes,” said Owen. And when he put his arms around George, the lad didn’t pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are references to self-harm and mental health issues.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen and George spend their first Christmas together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final festive instalment of the coffee shop AU. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with it. And it'll be back to my main series now I've got this out of my system! Hope everyone has a restful time over the holiday period. Please check the end notes for potential trigger warnings.

The coffee shop looked festive and welcoming with a small Christmas tree in one corner and some subtle lights in the window. There was also a sprig of mistletoe where George’s fan club of little old ladies and students were claiming a kiss with him. The lad coped with it all phlegmatically, but seemed embarrassed at the number of students who’d brought him tiny gifts.

“I’m gonna run your fan club and retire on the proceeds!” said Owen.

George went pink, and muttered something under his breath about how the students shouldn’t waste their money on him.

“They like the fact you’ve always got time for them and that you and Joe have created a place where no one shouts at them to move on after an hour …”

“Maybe …”

“I’m right,” said Owen firmly. “Oops, I’ll get out of your way while Dotty claims her kiss. If you’re lucky, that farting hound of hers won’t want one …”

***

“Are you coming over for Christmas, love?”

Owen hesitated for a moment, then said: “Mam, I’m gonna stay at home this year. George has just moved in with me and I’d like to make it special for him.”

“That sounds lovely. Is it working out OK?”

“Seems to be.” And so far it was. It all seemed relaxed, they were perfectly attuned in bed, and Owen’s house had never been tidier - George clearly liked things to be immaculate. And he was also a better cook than Owen - not that that was difficult. 

“You’d be very welcome to bring him over if you’d like to.”

“Thanks, but I’d like it to be just us this first Christmas …”

“I understand. We shall miss you, of course. What about new year?”

“I don’t know. Let me see how things go.”

“OK, love.”

He knew his mother was disappointed, but she’d never say anything. So he said quickly: “What does Gabe want for Christmas?”

She laughed. “How long have you and your bank balance got?”

***

Owen sighed quietly and concentrated on packing his kit into his bag. The Saracens Christmas party was one of the highlights of the year, and it was the sole topic of conversation at the moment. He truly didn’t want to go, but that wasn’t an option, particularly given Jamie and Elliot were on the organising committee.

And he wanted to take George with him, but wasn’t sure how he’d react to being asked. Owen had accepted that rugby union would never be something they shared, and he was fine with that. They had plenty that united them, rather than focusing on the one thing that could potentially divide them.

It was Jamie who fixed him with a beady stare as they tucked into breakfast after training. “Are you going to bring George with you to the party?”

“I dunno …”

Elliot was watching them unwaveringly, and Owen realised he knew as well. He might have guessed that Jamie would tell him. Jinx was more effective than an advert in the local paper!

“No one will say anything.”

“Yeah? I bet Billy’ll have an opinion on the matter …” The homophobic fuckwit’s views were well-known after the Folau saga.

“He’ll keep his mouth shut,” said Elliot.

“You can guarantee that?”

“Yes,” said Jamie firmly, and then changed the subject.

***

Owen broached the topic as they lay in bed on Sunday morning, their limbs entwined.

“I wondered … And it’s OK if you don’t want to … I’d really like it if you came to the Sarries Christmas party with me.”

George looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “Are you joking?”

“No.”

“How are you going to explain me away?”

“Nothing to explain. You’re my partner and that’s it.”

“Hell, Owen, are you ready for all the shit that’ll follow?”

“I don’t care. I’ve got you now and I’m proud and want everyone to know. But look, if you don’t want people to know …”

George enveloped him in a fierce hug. “I don’t care what people think. We’re together and that’s all that matters. And of course I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you.” Owen kissed the top of his head. “And I know we haven’t talked about it, and I suppose I’ve kind of assumed, but are you happy about us spending Christmas here together?”

Christmas Day was on a Monday, and he wasn't playing again until the following Saturday when they were home to Quins. Mark had given them Boxing Day off, but at the expense of the usual free Wednesday.

“Of course. But don’t you want to go to your parents’?”

“Maybe in the new year. I’d like it to be us our first Christmas. Unless you were going to spend it with Joe … Sorry, I just kind of assumed …”

“Joe’s going to mum and dad’s on Christmas Day.” George’s tone was flat. “Maybe we can see him on Boxing Day.”

“Good plan. I never asked if you celebrate Christmas …”

George looked confused. “How do you mean? I’m not religious, or anything. And to be honest, I usually just ignore it. The last time I did anything Christmassy was probably before I left home …”

“I wondered about getting a tree …”

“That’d be nice.”

Owen wasn’t sure whether George was just being polite. So he said: “Shall we go and choose one together?”

George nodded and pulled Owen on top of him. And then Owen forgot what else he was going to say …

***

George with long sleeves in bed the next night was the giveaway. Owen agonised over whether to say something. Eventually he kissed his forehead and said: “You OK?”

George’s blue eyes were clouded. “I’m sorry … I know I said I’d do my best not to …”

“What sparked it off?” asked Owen quietly. He pushed George’s sleeves up and gently kissed the scabs on his arms. Shit, they looked awful, criss-crossing both forearms.

George started to pull away, but Owen kept a gentle hold on him.

“Please tell me. We have to be honest with each other.”

“My anxiety went into overdrive … I want to go to the party with you. But I’m worried I’ll let you down. And I assume it’s a dressing up sort of thing. I don’t have anything smart to wear.”

“You won’t let me down, ever. And we can go out in the morning and get you something to wear. I’m sorry … I should have thought.” Owen could have kicked himself.

George was silent and Owen knew immediately what the problem was. Shit, why was he being so fucking dense …

“Don’t worry about the money. You can pay me back.”

George started to argue, but Owen over-rode him. “Georgie, listen to me. I’ve got the money and I don’t spend it. I want to be able to buy you nice things without you feeling like you’re sponging off me.”

“But …”

“We sort you some clothes out tomorrow and you pay me back when you can, OK?”

“OK. And thank you …”

“And if something makes you anxious, tell me and we can talk about it.”

George nodded. He wrapped his arms around Owen and they fell asleep holding each other tight.

***

George looked good. They’d picked him out a dark suit, white shirt and blue silk tie the exact same shade as his eyes. A pair of black lace-ups completed the outfit. It had all cost £250, and Owen could see George was worried by this.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “Pay me back in instalments.”

“Are you sure?”

Owen nodded.

“Thank you. I get paid this week, so I can give you the first bit then.”

“No hurry.”

***

“Who’s your mate, Faz?”

“This is George. He’s my boyfriend.”

There was dead silence for maybe ten or 15 seconds. And then the room erupted into cheers and wolf-whistles and smutty comments.

“You gonna snog him under the mistletoe?” asked Wiggy.

“Fuck off,” said Owen wittily.

“So that’s a no, then …”

Jamie and Elliot’s girlfriends bore down on George and whisked him off to introduce him to people. Owen accepted countless handshakes and slaps on the back. Even Billy smiled at him. Or it might have been a grimace. Either way, Owen didn’t give a fuck. No one seemed very surprised, though, and Owen wondered if they’d all been waiting for him to tell them.

The meal was good and George seemed to be coping with it all OK. They were on a table with Wiggy and his missus, Brad and his wife, and Maro and his latest glamorous girlfriend. Wiggy could talk the hind-leg off the winner of the 4.30pm at Ascot, and he soon had George chatting about Lancashire and rugby league.

Brad said under his breath: “I don’t think you’ll get any crap from anyone, but if you do, tell me and I’ll kick their arses so fucking hard they’ll end up between their shoulder-blades.”

“Thanks,” said Owen, picturing this with some amusement.

“Where did you meet him?”

“He and his brother run the coffee shop that me, Jinx and Elliot go to a lot.”

“Does he like rugby?”

“He’s a league fan.”

“Thank god. That’ll mean you don’t have to bore us with it any more!”

Owen gave him the finger and then apologised to a bemused young waitress who’d just appeared with his main course and had clearly wondered what she’d done to upset him …

***

“You got anything planned for today apart from getting a tree?” asked George casually, clearing away the breakfast plates and cups from in front of Owen and bunging them into the dishwasher. 

“Not particularly. Why?” 

The Sarries lads had got the day off from training, which was probably a good job given the number of sore heads likely being nursed that morning. Owen had had several glasses of wine and champagne, but felt perfectly clear-headed. They’d got in from the party about 1am. George had seemed relaxed and said in the taxi home that he’d enjoyed himself. Owen had been grateful to Wiggy and Maro for chatting easily with George.

“Come and choose your Christmas present, then.”

“You don’t need to get me anything …” Owen started to worry, knowing very well that George didn’t have much money.

George didn’t dignify that with an answer, instead waiting until Owen grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone into his pocket and followed him outside.

***

“Him,” said Owen. "No contest.”

George nodded. The goofy-looking lurcher with lopsided ears and a wide smile had obviously caught his eye as well. “What’s his name?”

“Muppet,” said the girl from the animal shelter. “Would you like to take him for a walk?”

George nodded again and reached into his pocket for a treat. Muppet accepted it as if it was his due. He then put his paws on their shoulders and treated them both to a lurcher snog on the nose.

“You’ve got a friend for life,” said the girl, hooking a lead onto Muppet’s collar. “You can take him round the bottom field. Don’t let him off the lead, though, or he’ll be three counties away before you blink.”

***

He’d bought George a load of clothes for Christmas - two pairs of jeans, two hoodies and half a dozen teeshirts. Owen was lousy at shopping, but he’d sneaked a look at the sizing on George’s jeans.

“Um, it’s not very original and I’m not great at knowing what to buy people, but I hope these are OK and all fit …”

George peeled the wrapping paper off and reached out and touched the soft cotton tops. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

The tree was listing slightly to one side, but it looked OK. And Muppet sat next to it, looking as if he’d been there for ever. The Christmas meal was rather late and slightly charred, but it didn’t matter. It felt to Owen, as they curled up on the sofa to watch some crap film, that they’d been together for ever as well.

***

Joe’s house was a neat two-up, two-down Victorian terrace. Owen had never been inside it before, although he’d kissed George on the doorstep often enough. Joe’s girlfriend Connie seemed nice. And Fizz was also there with their partner, who they introduced as Charlie.

They’d pigged out on turkey curry and were stretched out on sofas and in beanbags when the phone went mid-afternoon.

“Hi! Yeah, yesterday was lovely. Yeah, we’ve just had curry for lunch with the leftovers you sent … Connie’s here, and so’s George and his partner. No, it’s a he … I’ll ask …” Joe muted the call and said quietly: “George, it’s mum. Will you speak to her?”

George hesitated for what seemed like an age, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t … Tell her and dad that I said hello … Owen, is it OK if we go?”

Owen nodded. And he wasn’t in the least surprised when George had a panic attack in the car. He concentrated on holding his hand and talking softly to him until George’s breathing steadied.

“Sorry …” His voice was hoarse.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Come on, let’s get you home. Muppet’ll be gnawing the woodwork!”

And George managed a faint smile.

***

They were still awake at 1am. Muppet, who’d been banned from sleeping on their bed, had sneaked up and lay across their feet. And Joe had phoned twice, wracked with guilt at what had happened. The first time Owen had spoken to him and been fairly monosyllabic. The second time George had taken the call and simply said that it wasn’t Joe’s fault, but that everything was happening too fast and he couldn’t deal with it. He was still texting Jacob, but Owen knew he’d said no to meeting him just yet.

“Did your parents know you’re gay?”

“I dunno. I dunno what Joe’s told them in the past. He’s just said mum phoned back later and assured him she wasn’t shocked or anything, and that she really hopes she can meet you one day.”

Owen nodded. “Nothing happens until you’re ready … Remember the old line about how do you eat an elephant? A mouthful at a time …”

George managed a thin smile. “Thanks. Sorry you’ve had to take on all this shit.”

“I’m not,” said Owen simply.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me … For the first time, I dunno, I feel like I can start to sort my life out."

“What would you do if you had the choice?”

“Be a psychologist. One helped me so much. And I’d love to work with sports teams.”

“Do it. Do what I do and study part-time.”

“I can’t let Joe down.”

“You could fit studying around the shop.”

“I suppose …”

“Let’s see what courses there are around.” Owen pulled his laptop over and Googled ‘sports psychology degrees uk’. “OK, this looks promising. Herts do one and so do Brunel. And several of the London unis do as well. Let’s save the links and we can look again tomorrow.”

George nodded, cupping Owen’s face in his hands and kissing him. Muppet, not wishing to be left out, sneaked up, delivered a lurcher snog apiece, and then settled back down at the bottom of the bed.

***

George had done the early turn in the coffee shop the next morning, getting there at 6am to open up and switch all the machines on, and then deal with the early-morning rush. When Owen got back from training early afternoon, George was sitting at the kitchen table, the laptop open.

Owen kissed the top of his head and stared over his shoulder. The UCAS university application site was open. A pad of paper next to George was covered with his neat handwriting.

“You’re gonna do it?”

George hesitated, stared at the screen and nodded. Then he began to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a warning for mental health issues and self-harm.


End file.
